View full sizeJessica Scott | The Grand Rapids PressAll in the family: From left, Kody Wieghmink, 13, Dar Wieghmink, Kristina Venlet, Kaylee Wieghmink, 11, Kolten Wieghmink, 4, and Casey Venlet, 11, sit on the couch of their West Olive home. Kristina, (who also has another daughter, Haley, 15) underwent a double mastectomy and a hysterectomy to prevent developing cancer due to a gene that increases her risk.

At age 32, Kristina Venlet, of West Olive, found out she carried a gene that gave her an 85 percent chance of getting breast cancer and a 50 percent chance of getting ovarian cancer. Here is her story.

By Kristina Venlet | Special to the Press

I am young, but I am at extreme risk for breast and ovarian cancer with my family history and gene pool.

My mother’s mother was diagnosed with cancer at age 34. She died shortly after, leaving my mother and her siblings at a very young age. My grandmother’s mother died young of breast cancer, leaving my grandmother at a very young age. There are stories from our native country, Poland, of ancestors losing mothers at a very young age.

Within the past two years and only a few months apart, my mother, Jane Vander Toorn, and my aunt, Linda Verburg, her youngest sister, were told they had ovarian cancer. Another sister, Annie Krasinski, died of breast cancer at age 45.

I need to stop this family destroyer. I need to be there for my husband and our five children.

My mother’s and aunt’s diagnosis, (at ages 53 and 46, respectively), were shocking and life-changing. Each woman had an immense battle before them, and their loved ones and supporters were faced with the possibility of spending the rest of their lives without their mother, wife, sister or friend.

Ovarian cancer, known as the “silent killer,” accounts for about 3 percent of all cancers in women. There often are no symptoms until the disease has progressed to an advanced stage. The survival rate for women diagnosed with this cancer is only 45 percent.

My mother and her sister had immediate hysterectomies and six chemo treatments to eradicate any traces of the cancer. They had no time to waste, already having an advanced stage of the disease. Both are in remission today and undergo quarterly screenings to ensure they are cancer free. Each doctor’s visit is filled with anxiety as they wait to hear if the cancer has returned.

Recently, we learned my aunt’s cancer was back and had spread. She is scheduled for another surgery and six more chemo treatments. She is horrified to be fighting another battle.

My aunt has done an incredible job with raising awareness in our family, and I owe my reduced risk of breast and ovarian cancers to her. Several family members went in for genetic testing, including me, at Spectrum Health Genetic Services. I tested positive for the mutated gene linked with increased risks for breast and ovarian cancers.

What did that mean? It meant my lifetime risk for breast cancer is 85 percent, and my lifetime risk for ovarian cancer is 50 percent, the genetic counselor told me.

I went numb as I stared blankly across the table at him after hearing this. To beat these diseases, I would need to have several semi-annual screenings which included blood draws, vaginal ultrasounds, mammograms and MRIs.

None of these screenings is foolproof. Each one comes with anxiety and anticipation, wondering if the phone call from the doctor will tell me they found something.

My other options were a bilateral mastectomy, with reconstructive breast surgery, and a hysterectomy. These options significantly reduce breast cancer risk to 2 percent and ovarian cancer to 3 percent.

While I knew I was living healthy, it didn’t seem enough insurance for my life. I chose the surgeries. I did not want to live my life in fear, anticipating the doctors’ phone calls and the onslaught of these diseases. I wanted the risk gone from my life as much as possible. I wanted to function and live a normal life. I was not going to let something take control of me and destroy my life or my family.

In December 2009, I had all of my breast tissue and mammary glands removed. Although, I was not in too much physical pain, the bodily transformation was very emotional. I walked into the hospital on the day of my surgery happy with my appearance and shape. I awoke from surgery to face what appeared to be an adolescent girl in the mirror. I looked as if I was 12 again. I had no breasts. I cried.

The prophylactic surgeries were a big decision for me. I did research, talked to many people and battled my decisions. Did I want more children? Do I want to experience having a baby with my new husband? What if something goes wrong?

The reconstructive process went well. After a temporary breast expander was placed inside of me during the first surgery, there were weekly saline injections for several months. This slowly stretched my pectoral muscles to make room for permanent implants.

One visit in particular stands out. My husband, Dar, and I sat in the doctor’s outpatient operating room for more than 10 silent minutes. The physician’s assistant finally walked in and began the procedure. I lay on my back with knees bent upward, fists clenched and knuckles white. My jaw was tense, and it was hard to breath. A single tear rolled down the side of my face. The assistant apologized and handed me a tissue. I told her it was not the pain of the procedure that made me cry. She said she understood. Every woman she had seen that day had cried. I told her it must be a full moon. We laughed. She said no, it was not that. The reconstruction phase of expanding the temporary implants after the bilateral mastectomy can be very stressful and emotional, she said.

Dar saw the tear, and I knew he felt helpless. He wanted to rescue me, but he could not. This was a journey I had to walk and stay strong for, not just for me, but for him, our children and all the other women facing this disease.

I was poked with two needles to numb my breasts and two larger needles that were 1 1/2 inches long to inject the saline. The physician’s assistant asked me if I had a good support person. Dar’s face flashed in my mind and before my eyes, along with my family and friends. I looked at her and said with absolute confidence, “yes.”

My second breast surgery for the permanent silicon implants was in March. I am recovered and back to my normal schedule and exercise routines.

My mother and two of my aunts are going through the breast removal and reconstructive processes. We are a small network of supporters for each other, with a passion to touch the lives of others through encouragement and awareness. Through this experience, I have gained more patience, knowing results are not always immediate, and increased my appreciation for life, valuing and cherishing every moment with those I love.

When my mother had bilateral mastectomy surgery in January, she was counting on me to be there. I was the forerunner in the family with the prophylactic breast surgery. It was the least I could do, to help encourage my mother, aunts, sisters, daughters and many other women.

As I walked into Blodgett Hospital to see her before surgery, I adjusted my cami. How many times had I walked into public with one boob higher than the other, trying to make my flat chest look like a woman’s? I felt no embarrassment. I rearranged my chest and composed myself. With a smile and confidence, I walked into the surgical patient holding area, where my father was standing by my mother’s side as she lay in the hospital bed, smiling warmly at me.

I could not have stood strong through all of this if it wasn’t for the support of my husband, our children, my parents, my aunt, many other family members and friends. These diseases immensely affect many women and their families, emotionally, physically and financially. I want to be alive and healthy for my husband and our five children, for a very long time.